Deck the Holmes With Boughs of Holly
by LittleGingerBiscuit
Summary: Sherlock and John are forced in to spending Christmas at the Holmes household, along with Mycroft and Lestrade. But with a homophobic family and two gay couples under one roof, all hell is about to break loose.
1. Chapter 1

**Hey :) So this is chapter one of an out-of-season Christmas fic, as requested by a reader. Hopefully it won't disappoint - review and more will follow.**

When it snows in London, it really snows. Traffic comes to a standstill, and it's virtually impossible to get anywhere. Which is why Sherlock Holmes was holding out so much hope that he could get out of Christmas.

It was December 24th, late in the evening. 221B had been lit from the inside by lengthy strings of fairy lights, hung by a reluctant Sherlock and a startlingly willing John, under the orders of an understandably festive Mrs Hudson. The lady in question was currently downstairs in her flat, dusting sugar on top of freshly baked mince pies.

Upstairs, Sherlock was kneeling on the windowsill, his nose pressed to the cold glass, glaring out in to the street. "Come on," he muttered, his breath steaming up the window. "Snow. Snow!"

John, who was kneeling on the floor mid-way through wrapping presents, sighed. "It's unavoidable, Sherlock. We're going."

Sherlock groaned and flung himself on to the sofa in one fluid movement, curling up in to the foetal position with his dressing gown stretched over his knees.

"You have nobody but yourself to blame," John chided, biting off a strip of tape and sticking it to the edge of a chair for safe-keeping. "If you hadn't promised your mother we'd visit, we could be spending Christmas elsewhere."

Sherlock huffed. "She's manipulative," he muttered. "Like a lady of the night."

John glanced up at him, wide-eyed. "You're comparing your mother to a prostitute?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

John simply shook his head and folded the last corner of wrapping paper over, sticking it down with his saved tape. He added it to the pile of wrapped presents triumphantly, then sat back on his heels. "I don't know why you're dreading it so much," he said, trying his best to sound reasonable. "I've never met your family before, and Christmas seems like as good a time as any to get to know them."

"You've met Mycroft," muttered Sherlock.

John looked considerate as he took a sip of sherry. "That's only one of them. I've yet to meet the Holmes parents."

Sherlock curled up even tighter. "I don't know why you'd want to."

"Because, Sherlock," said John, standing and walking over to sit on the arm of Sherlock's sofa. "It's important for a man to be introduced to his boyfriend's parents." He patted Sherlock's hair by means of comfort, then made a little 'hmm' sound of contentment before heading off to find his laptop.

Sherlock, lying brooding on the sofa, said nothing.

**~Sherlock~**

When the clock rolled round to five o'clock, Sherlock and John stepped out in to the snow and John raised his arm to hail down a cab. Sherlock was busy attempting to catch snowflakes in his gloved hands before they melted.

Eventually, after a long and uncomfortably cold wait, an old taxi pulled up by the curb that was mercifully empty. Sherlock wasted no time in throwing himself in to the car, while John leaned in through the front window to give the cabbie the address. Then he joined Sherlock in the back seat, and the taxi pulled away in to the road.

**~Sherlock~**

The taxi ride to the house was oddly silent. John and Sherlock sat further away from each other than normal, since they both had overnight bags placed on the middle seat. Sherlock had insisted on strapping his bag in as if it were a real person, leaving John's bag balancing precariously on the edge.

John had to amuse himself for most of the journey, since Sherlock was glued to his phone the entire time.

At one point, he tried to breach the silence, with disappointing results.

"Are you texting?" he'd asked casually.

Sherlock had just nodded.

"Mycroft?" John had guessed.

Again, Sherlock only nodded.

"Is he going to be there?"

Sherlock had shrugged.

John had given up on the conversation after that, instead opting to sit in silence while Sherlock continued his sulk. Trying to gauge a reaction out of him while he was in this sort of mood was virtually possible, and anyone who tried for longer than five minutes was frankly an idiot.

**~Sherlock~**

The instant John stepped out of the taxi, he was awestruck. Whatever he had been expecting from the Holmes house, this far surpassed all those expectations. Squashed them flat.

Because the Holmes house, situated on a raised hill with its own long driveway and manned gate, was immense.

It was like someone had taken Buckingham Palace and built an extension on top. The whole thing was all marble pillars, impeccably cut grass, neat flowerbeds and crystal-clear fountains.

John felt incredibly out of place, even wearing his new suit. The golden lights that drenched the field-sixed gardens shone down and highlighted his every move. If the rest of the Holmes family were anything like Mycroft, John knew for sure there would also be a million different cameras trained on him whenever he took a step.

Sherlock stepped out of the cab and looked up at the house, distaste evident on his sharply-angled face. When he started walking towards the door, his movements were stiff and tense.

He had insisted before they left the house that the Holmes family didn't do presents, so the gifts John had been wrapping were for Mrs Hudson, Molly, and the others back in central London. Sherlock had, however, bought Mycroft a new tie, since it was pattered with miniature cupcakes and he knew that his brother would never wear it.

John stood at the front door and tried to look cheerful. "Ready?"

Sherlock shook his head mutely, but leaned forward to press the doorbell. After, he turned to John, a look of slight panic replacing his stony silence. "John, there's something you should know about my parents…"

But it was too late for him to finish.

The door swung open, and there stood the woman who was, without question, Sherlock's mother. She had blonde hair, but it hung in tight curls to her shoulders where it wasn't gathered in a diamond clasp behind her head. Her eyes were the same clear grey-green-blue as Sherlock's, and she had the same skin tone as Mycroft. Her mouth, like Mycroft's, was a thin line. But what really stood out was the fact that her cheekbones, high and pronounced, looked sharp enough to cut through granite.

John swallowed.

"Sherlock!" His mother sashayed forward in her insanely high heels, enveloping her son in a perfume-smelling embrace. "Oh, it's so wonderful to see you!" She had a voice almost like poison – sickly sweet and deadly.

Sherlock returned the hug with less enthusiasm, patting his mother's shoulder stiffly until he was released.

Then Mrs Holmes stepped back, and her piercing gaze began to scrutinise John. He shifted his weight awkwardly from foot to foot, unsure of what to say.

It was Mrs Holmes who broke the heavy silence first. "And who's this?" she asked, sounding eerily calm.

John opened his mouth to introduce himself, and Sherlock's head snapped up. "John Watson," he said quickly. "Doctor John Watson. My assistant." He coughed in to his sleeve.

Mrs Holmes narrowed her eyes and stuck out her pale hand, the nails of which were manicured to perfection. "How nice to meet you," she said. "I didn't know Sherlock was bringing company."

John frowned slightly. "Well, I'm…"

"A colleague," cut in Sherlock. "One of the few Scotland Yarders working on my current case. John's been offering forensics help – it's a very pressing crime."

Mrs Holmes rolled her eyes. "You boys and your work," she sighed. "Mycroft's brought along a work-friend, too. He says they're working on something international, though he was only vague about details."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Mycroft brought somebody to dinner?"

Mrs Holmes nodded matter-of-factly. "A Detective Gregory Lestrade, I think his name was. Quiet man, though Mycroft was hardly giving him time to speak. Well, I'll just be sure to talk to him and John at dinner." Then she turned and walked inside, leaving them to follow her.

John shuddered. Whether it was the fact she talked about him like he wasn't there, or the fact that she looked as made-up as a model, there was something unnerving about Mrs Holmes.

Sherlock stepped inside and looked around the vast entrance hall with a frown. He was straining to hear conversations in the adjacent rooms, in the hopes he would hear a snippet of Mycroft and Lestrade talking.

"So," said John, following him in and closing the door behind them. "This is the great Holmes house." There was a pause while he looked around, then under his breath he whispered, "it's a bloody castle."

Sherlock smirked for the first time since the morning, and relief washed over John to see his boyfriend display some other emotion apart from hostility.

Whatever happened in the next 48 hours, it was definitely going to be interesting.

**How was that? A bit shaky, but please bear in mind that this is only chapter 1, and future chapters will be more humorous and therefore more enjoyable. But for know, I hope that was ok. Please please PLEASE review, and I'll try and have chapter 2 up by tomorrow.**

**Amy xxx**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hey everyone! I am so so so so so sorry this hasn't been updated sooner. I was looking over the AN on my last chapter, and it said that I'll try to get the next one up by tomorrow. That was ages ago, and you've probably given up hope on ever getting another one. But I recently hit 700 followers on tumblr, so I'm showing my appreciation by updating all my fanfics that need it. I might even get another chapter of this done today! You never know. Anyway, I'm so sorry about the wait, and I hope this chapter makes up for it. **

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><p>Dinner was no less awkward than John had expected.<p>

After being shown to their rooms – which were separate, something that confused John until Sherlock distracted him by kissing him senseless against a wardrobe – they were taken back downstairs to be seated in the dining room.

And Christ, it was a dining room and a half. The length of it stretched over the space of about two 221B's, and the walls were hung with rich velvet tapestries against dark, wine-coloured paint.

It had a high ceiling, one of those murals that featured cherubs and angels in gold paint. John spent a good few moments enjoying it by tipping his head back to look, until he got a headache and had to glance forward again.

Floor-to-ceiling windows lined the West wall, though the heavy curtains had been let down to close out the dark. These windows also appeared in John's room, since all the rooms in the Holmes house seemed to have ridiculously high ceilings. Granted, the family had the gene pool of a giraffe and were taller than most people, but the building's architecture was bordering on excessive.

And that was only the start of things. The dining table itself was made from dark wood, and took up most of the floor space. Somehow, the poor people working in the house had managed to find a table-cloth big enough to cover it, though John suspected they must have had to sew together every article of clothing they collectively owned to manage it.

Around the corners of the room there were sideboards holding trays of clean cutlery and wine glasses, presumably in case the ones already laid out on the table somehow broke.

John was shoved in to a chair at the far left end of the table, on to a mercifully padded seat. Sitting on a velvet cushion during dinner, not something he thought he'd ever experience. Made a change from Chinese takeaway in front of the TV, anyway.

John watched patiently as everyone else was shown to a chair. Sherlock sat opposite him, Mycroft was next to him, and Greg sat next to Sherlock. Mrs Holmes was seated one place next to the head of the table. John wondered who that seat was being saved for.

He didn't have to wait long to find out. The big double-doors leading in to the dining room opened, and the most overpowering man John had ever seen emerged in to the room.

Mr Holmes was tall, to begin with. Taller than Sherlock and Mycroft, taller than his wife. His hair was dark and carefully combed, more in a style similar to Mycroft's than Sherlock's. His eyes were narrow and cold, and his high cheekbones stuck out, casting shadows over the sloping planes of his face. He was dressed impeccably in a black suit and grey tie, not a thread out of place. John was scared to look at him in case he got arrested.

The table fell to a hushed silence as Mr Holmes strode round to the head of the table, pulled out his chair with a distressingly calm movement, and sat down.

John could feel the tension. He held his breath.

Then, after a suitable length of heavy silence, Mr Holmes let a bright white smile tug the corners of his thin mouth up. And God, he had sharp teeth. Lots of them, too. Watching him smile was like watching a shark.

"Sorry I'm late," he announced, and John shuddered in his seat. His voice was so…_low_. Like someone had taken Sherlock's voice box and messed around with it until it sounded like a cat purring. "Shall we begin?"

The tension seemed to diffuse between the members of the Holmes family, while Greg and John exchanged a wide-eyed, terrified look over the table. John was glad that Mycroft had invited him, whatever the reason may have been, purely for the reason he wouldn't be alone.

John sat back in his chair as several servers came round and dished out the first course, which appeared to be soup. Again, not what he was used to, but still. He shot a glance over at Sherlock, wondering how on Earth he was going to a manage a three-course meal when he could barely force down two mouthfuls of food at home. Still, the detective seemed intent on just stirring his soup around like he was eating it, pushing it about his bowl with a bored expression. Perhaps his parents were used to it by now.

"So," said Mr Holmes, midway through their starter. "I don't think I've had the pleasure of being introduced to our guests this evening." He looked over to his wife and mouthed, "friends?"

Mrs Holmes shook her head. "Colleagues," she whispered back. Her whispering was awful; John was pretty confident the people in the basement kitchens could hear her.

That seemed to brighten Mr Holmes's mood considerably, and he leaned his elbows on the table so he could rest his chin on his linked hands. The man looked like he was plotting world domination, not hosting a Christmas dinner.

"Well, I think we should take the opportunity to get to know each other," he declared.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Mycroft inspected his nails.

John and Greg turned pale.

"I'm Sherringford," Mr Holmes continued, that disturbing toothpaste-advert smile still fixed in place. John wasn't even sure he could call it a smile. There was nothing there, just a slightly manic grin. His stare was _dead_. John half-expected his eye to start twitching. "And you are?"

"John..." "Gregory…"

The answers came at the same time.

Mr Holmes – _Sherringford_ – looked between them, a small frown creasing his broad forehead. After a few seconds of hushed silence, he pointed a ringed finger at John and said, "You."

John swallowed a lump in his throat, and repeated, "John." His voice was quiet and trembling, and he forced himself to be louder when he said, "John Watson."

Sherringford's smile got, if humanly possible, even more fake. "Pleasure to meet you. And what do you do?"

"John's a doctor," Sherlock jumped in quickly, leaning across the table and practically shoving John's head down to keep him out of his father's view. "Served in the army."

"Ah, I see," said Sherringford, leaning back in his chair and drumming his fingers eerily slowly on the table. "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John opened his mouth to reply, but Sherlock quickly stopped him by dropping his hand to cover his mouth. "Afghanistan," he told him.

Sherringford nodded, turning his piercing gaze on to Greg. "And you?" he asked, leaning forward out of attempted politeness. The effect, however, was that of a vulture closing in on its prey.

Greg nodded and tried to meet the man's eyes, failing miserably. "Greg," he said, swallowing dryly. "Greg Lestrade."

"Gregory's a detective-inspector at Scotland Yard," Mycroft cut in, sitting up straight and trying to remain professional while shooting Greg small warning glances over the table. "He's currently working with me on a pressing international matter. I would love to discuss it in further detail, but unfortunately it is highly confidential and I would much prefer it if we elaborated later, in private." He gestured to the various servants standing around the room.

Sherringford nodded calmly in agreement, eyes closing slightly. "Of course," he trilled.

The waiters came round to serve the second course, and everything was mercifully quiet for about ten minutes while everyone ate.

However, happiness wasn't allowed to last.

"So, John," said Sherringford, dabbing at the corners of his mouth with a cloth napkin. "We know Mycroft and Gregory met through work, but how did you meet my son?"

There was something unnervingly protective about the way he said 'my son', like the father of a teenage girl when talking to her first date.

John swallowed his bite of food before he spoke. "We were introduced by a mutual friend," he said. "At Bar…"

Sherlock had cut him off again, this time by giving him a sharp kick to the shin under the table.

John bit down on his lip to keep from making a sound, hands gripping the edge of the table until his knuckles turned white. Christ, that was painful.

Sherringford raised an eyebrow expectantly.

Sherlock laughed nervously. "We met at St Bartholomew's Hospital," he said. "John was doing medical work while I was there for a case. Our skill sets seemed to compliment each other, so we decided to combine them to aid both our causes."

John frowned at him through his glare. What was he talking about?

"I see," said Sherringford, looking back and forth between them with narrowed eyes. "And from what I've heard, you've been colleagues for a long while now. I take it it's an easy partnership?"

"Yes," John agreed, nodding. "Sherlock and I are…"

He cut off as Sherlock once again kicked him. However, this time Sherlock either slipped or was aiming for a much harder impact, since his foot hit him right between his legs. John had to cough in to his sleeve to stifle his yell, face turning a red colour and eyes starting to water.

Mycroft scowled at Sherlock across the table.

"Excuse me," said John, standing up with some difficulty and using the armrest of his chair to brace himself. Then, he turned on his heel and walked stiffly from the room, trying his absolute hardest not to wince.

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><p><strong>Was it ok? I tried my hardest, but I haven't written anything in absolutely ages, so this was the first thing I tried out. I wanted to make it sort of humorous (not sure if I managed it or not...) and I ended up kicking John in the balls. Sorry! Anyhoo, like I said, I'll try and get another chapter up tonight. Please review! And if you're not already, maybe you could follow me on tumblr? <span>Boys-from-baker-stree<span>t dot tumblr dot com**

**Thanks!**

**Amy x**


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